


bad omen

by thanksroach (irnhero)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angel!Geralt, Angel/Demon Relationship, Bittersweet Ending, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, demon!jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24207460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irnhero/pseuds/thanksroach
Summary: Jaskier had never seen an angel before. He knew they existed, but he’d only ever heard about them. This angel was remarkable, unfathomable, finally giving meaning to the word 'heavenly'. He felt drawn to the curious creature like a moth to a flame - so he followed him. He didn't mean to fall in love with him.or:A demon falls for an angel and it all goes downhill from there.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 25
Kudos: 192





	bad omen

Jaskier moved alone, but he was hardly ever lonely. Mortals made for delightful company and he was happy to indulge them. Simple creatures, they could never resist him. He almost couldn’t blame them - he was quite irresistible.

Eyes full of promise of something  _ otherworldly  _ and a voice like a siren left them defenseless. They looked at him, listened to him, and saw everything they ever wanted. The world evaporated around them and he was all they could see, all they wanted to see. He could make them do anything. 

He drew them in, used them if he pleased, and he was gone in a puff of smoke. Oh, how  _ empty _ they would feel when he was gone, how foolish and wasted and  _ hollow _ . But it made no difference to him, the humans deserved it. How could they possibly expect to feel whole after giving in to such a superficial temptation?

This was his way, his expertly designed honey trap. Plush lips dripping with decedent words entertained them for a time, but it was never to last. Once the spell was broken, they were left with nothing but a cold bed, a cold heart, and all their consequences _. _

He came, he wreaked his havoc, and he moved on to the next unfortunate soul. He loved it as much as anyone could love their work and then some for all the comforts it brought him. He had no need for coin - he paid for his lifestyle with enchanting smiles and lilting lyrics. They kept him in fine clothes and soft beds with every delicacy he could dream of. 

Lovely ladies and handsome lords would give him anything he asked just to enjoy his company for however long he was inclined to stay. And when he grew bored of them, he flitted to the next castle or grand house that struck his fancy. They were happy to dote upon him, happy to use all their gold and influence to keep him comfortable, to make him stay. He never did. And if there was a spouse enraged that he’d borrowed their bed or pitchfork-armed villagers starving without coin spent on him, he didn’t worry himself with it. This was what demons did. This was his purpose.

However, even lavish luxuries could become a bore after a while. Sometimes he just needed to get up to some old fashioned mischief. 

Which is how he came to be perched upon a gate in the middle of a bustling market very much enjoying himself as the humans fumbled over his tricks. They tripped on thin air, spilling their wares into the mud. They forgot where they were heading, only to turn around and remember after they’d walked half a mile in the wrong direction. They stepped on each other’s feet, sat in buckets of water, and generally made fools of themselves. Jaskier could admit they were juvenile pranks, not at all the work one would expect from an evil and ancient entity, but it was hilarious and he deserved a good laugh now and then.

Jaskier was watching a man tangle himself in his goat’s rope as he spun around in circles for no apparent reason when something - no,  _ someone _ \- brooding in a corner with the most spectacular frown caught his eye. 

He had never seen an angel before. He knew they existed, just as surely as he did, but he’d only ever heard about them. He’d heard they were easy to miss - they were to be felt, not seen or heard - but Jaskier couldn’t imagine how anyone could  _ miss  _ such a specimen. The angel was remarkable, unfathomable, and yet no one seemed to notice. No one bothered to stop and marvel at the being before them, the one who finally gave meaning to the word  _ heavenly _ . Though Jaskier supposed this was his purpose. To stand silently in the shadows, turning humans towards the light.

He knew it was an angel on sight. It was the eyes. The angel could hide his shimmering golden eyes from the mortals, but never from his own kind - or as close to his kind as Jaskier was. The angel would certainly know what he was from his own blood-red eyes if he would just  _ look _ .

With a twitch of his finger, a woman carrying a bucket of water took a spectacularly dramatic tumble right in front of Jaskier, yelping all the while. 

The angel looked over to the commotion and Jaskier caught his gaze at last. There was surely recognition there somewhere, but there was no change to the angel’s stoic expression. He watched for a moment. Two. Then he turned and disappeared down a shadowy ally.

Curiosity thoroughly peaked, Jaskier left his perch and followed.

\---

The angel ignored Jaskier for a solid week after they left the market, refusing to acknowledge that he was there with so much as a glance in his direction. It was quite a feat considering the caliber of his efforts to get the angel’s attention; he was not easily ignored. Jaskier chattered to (at) him constantly with idle commentary about the weather and the scenery at first, then about himself in an effort to start a conversation. He asked him endless questions - about where he was going, what he would do when he got there, didn’t he mind sleeping on the ground, inquiring about what an odd angel he was - and didn’t receive even a shrug in response. 

He walked behind him, beside him, even backward in front of him for a while, but it made no difference. He didn’t sleep a wink the whole time, afraid the angel would slip away from him in the night. Despite his efforts to appear otherwise, the angel’s patience was clearly growing thinner as the days wore on. All Jaskier had to do was wait.

Jaskier was humming a little tune to himself, perched on a log while the angel set about making his camp when he let out an exasperated huff and said, without looking up from his fire, “You make a truly unfathomable amount of noise.”

His voice was deep and gravely and it scared the  _ shit  _ out of Jaskier as it broke the relative silence. Jaskier made a marginally successful attempt to mask his surprise and cleared his throat before responding.

“Perhaps if you would contribute to the conversation now and then, I wouldn't have to,” he said with a smirk.

“I doubt that,” the angel replied with a grunt of... amusement? Frustration? Perhaps both?

“Haha, very funny. I didn’t realize angels had a penchant for comedy.” 

“Shows what you know about angels,” he grumbled.

“And snarky as well!” Jaskier threw back with a giggle, “Perhaps you could enlighten me, angel?”

“I have a name.”

“What a coincidence, so do I,” The angel didn’t laugh at his joke.

The angel paused, then said, “I know who you are.”

Jaskier’s smile slipped a bit. “How could you possibly know who I am?”

“You are Julian. You’re the one making trouble with the nobles.”

Jaskier didn’t say anything, stunned. He didn’t know he had a reputation, much less among angels. Well, angel.

“I’ve been cleaning up after you for some time now.”

“Been consoling them once I’m gone?” Jaskier said, smirk back in place.

The angel looked up with a grave expression. “Been feeding the starving children left behind once you’re gone.”

“I didn’t starve anyone, those high-born imbeciles did.” Jaskier found himself resenting the implication that he was at fault - he simply didn’t see it that way. It wasn’t his job to take care of anyone but himself and if the fools couldn’t look past a pretty face to do their duty, that wasn’t his problem (even if it was his pretty face).

The angel seemed to consider Jaskier’s words for a moment before he said, “I know.” 

Silence followed and the angel went back to his work. Jaskier let quiet minutes pass, dissipating the tension before he spoke again.

“That isn’t my name, you know. Works well enough for mortals but far too dull for a demon, don’t you think?”

The angel looked up expectantly.

“I am Jaskier,” he said with a flourish and a bow.

“Geralt.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The angel - Geralt -  _ hmm _ -ed in response and continued tending the fire. Progress would be slow, so it seemed.

\---

After their first chat, the angel at least wasn’t pretending not to see him, so that was something. He would even respond to Jaskier’s chatter every now and then and looked him in the eye when they spoke. A week or so later, Jaskier let himself sleep and, to his surprise, woke to find Geralt sitting nearby, polishing a silver blade and waiting for him.

At the next village, Jaskier charmed the innkeeper out of a room and invited Geralt to join him. He was more than a little skeptical, but the prospect of spending the night indoors on a bed was evidently too good to resist. Geralt seemed surprised at how easy it was for Jaskier to get things out of the mortals so, naturally, he showed off to the best of his ability, treating them to a few nights with warm beds, baths, good ale, and hot meals. He didn’t mind spoiling himself when it came so easily and Geralt surely wasn’t complaining. After that, they traveled faster, sometimes through the night, from town to town. Jaskier smiled to himself at how quickly the angel had become accustomed to the amenities traveling with him provided and found that it pleased him more than it ought to supply them.

This angel was not what he’d expected. They were supposed to be these ethereal beings with perfect, cheery dispositions who lived to aid the mortals in any way that they could. They were supposed to love the Earth and all its creatures and sunshine and rainbows and so on and so forth.

Geralt was gorgeous for certain, tall and broad with eyes that shimmered in the light and a jawline that was obviously chiseled by the Gods. But as for his disposition, he was downright ornery. Jaskier had yet to see the angel smile, or make any expression besides a scowl for that matter. Geralt grunted through their conversations more often than not and had the general aura of a gloomy stormcloud.

As for his attitude towards the mortals, Geralt seemed mostly indifferent to them. He didn’t mention the aid he’d given Jaskier’s tangential victims again and he wasn’t interested in helping anyone in the villages they passed through - at least not individuals. He stuck to vague gestures, like watering dry crops or changing the course of a lightning storm, but he kept well away from any political turmoil or internal squabbling.

“They’ve disappointed me at every turn.” Geralt had said on one of the few occasions Jaskier had been able to get the angel to speak in full sentences. He’d refused to elaborate, but there was a darkness behind his eyes for hours.

He didn’t mind Jaskier’s demonly activities either, unbothered by his methods of securing them places to stay and providing little more than a shrug when he left their table in search of more carnal pleasures.

He did seem to have a soft spot for the children though. When they passed a starving boy, begging in the streets, Geralt produced some bread and meat for him (and there may or may not have been more waiting for the boy’s family when he returned to their hut). Another time, he mended a young girl’s toy (and the nasty boys who’d broken it later found that their shoes had mysteriously made their way into the river). He said that the innocent deserved better, whatever they might become someday.

As if he couldn’t get odder, Geralt preferred animals over the humans, and they preferred him as well. When they did stop between towns, sitting around the fire, all manner of creatures would pass through their camp, from tiny chipmunks to full-grown deer and even a few wolves one night. There was one beautiful brown mare who seemed to follow Geralt wherever he went. He never mounted her (not that he needed to, angels and demons never tired) but she walked beside him when he traveled and allowed him to use her to carry his few belongings. She appeared to be the closest thing Geralt had to a friend - he even named her (and refused to hear Jaskier’s assertions that ‘Roach’ was  _ not  _ a name).

The angel  _ intrigued  _ him. It was more than the allure of a challenge now, Jaskier felt drawn to the curious creature like a moth to a flame. Geralt never did anything particularly interesting, yet Jaskier followed him anyway. He talked to Geralt as much as he would allow, asking him every question he could conjure (and receiving next-to-no answers).

Geralt’s aversion to humans meant he didn’t have much else in the way of companionship. Perhaps that was why he let a demon hang around him. Still, he seemed wary of Jaskier. He was always careful to keep a few feet of distance between them and didn’t allow Jaskier to hand him anything, almost as he was afraid he would be burned if they touched. Angels must have heard talk about demons too; perhaps this was one the myths they’d been told.

Jaskier didn’t mind it. He expected it would wear off eventually, as his own notions about angels did. Geralt had no bright halo over his head, no innocence about him, no flowers growing wherever he stepped. He was nothing at all like angels were supposed to be. Jaskier wondered what demons were supposed to be, and if he disappointed those notions as much Geralt disappointed his.

One evening as they settled on opposite sides of the fire, Geralt tending to his silver sword, he asked.

After a long pause, the angel answered, “Demons are meant to have horns and tails. Sharp, pointed teeth and long, black talons.”

Jaskier laughed long and hard, drawing the smallest grin from Geralt. “How could you know what I was without all that?”

“Your eyes,” he said simply. Gold drifted up to meet ruby red and for a few silent moments, they just stared.

“Any other myths you need debunked?” 

A pause.

“Your kind are supposed to hate humans, but you seem to love them,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier scoffed at that, “No I don’t.”

“You lay with them at every opportunity.”

“Because it’s easy and I want to.” He felt his temper rising at what felt like an accusation. “They’re fickle beings and their heads are so easily turned. One look, and suddenly wedding vows and oaths of honor mean nothing. Their word means nothing when the chance for a good fuck presents itself.”

“You trick them,” he said, no judgment in his tone, as if he were merely stating facts.

“I tempt them. That’s what I’m  _ for _ . I bat my eyes and lick my lips and they come running. Maybe I sway them, but the choice is still theirs. And anyway, if I must be among them, I might as well  _ enjoy  _ myself.”

The angel dropped his gaze.

“You don’t seem to care much for them either. They disappoint you, you said so yourself.”

“You’re right,” a pause, “they’re fickle and foolish and they make too many mistakes. That doesn’t make them worthless. They can do good if given the chance.”

“Not all of them,” Jaskier countered.

“No, not all of them. Enough of them.”

“How many is enough?”

“One.”

They both fell silent and let the sounds around them take over, the crackle of the fire, the movement of the trees. Jaskier looked over the flame and watched as Geralt turned his attention back to his blade, carefully avoiding his gaze. Then, Jaskier made a decision he hoped he wouldn’t regret.

He got slowly to his feet and started towards the angel’s log. He pretended not to notice how Geralt’s hands went still, his breath halted, and his eyes tried to follow Jaskier without looking up.

He took a seat right beside Geralt, close enough to feel his warmth but just far enough that they wouldn’t touch by accident. Geralt didn’t move an inch, frozen in place. Jaskier sat still, waiting for him to relax with his body turned towards him, open and unguarded. The angel let a few breaths escape and sat up very straight facing the fire, but Jaskier could still see Geralt’s eyes tracking his every move. 

“You don’t like to be touched?” Jaskier asked gently.

“Not so,” Geralt replied rigidly. “We are natural opposites. Fire and water.”

“You think something terrible will happen if we touch.”

“It is a possibility.”

Jaskier raised his hand from where it rested on his lap as slowly as he could manage, palm facing up between them. “Care to experiment?”

The angel finally turned his head, fixing him with a puzzled look, and Jaskier returned what he hoped was encouragement. 

Silent minutes passed, so many that Jaskier almost withdrew his offer. But just before he decided to try again another time, Geralt’s arm shifted ever so timidly. He lifted his hand, palm down, and let it hover over Jaskier’s for a tense moment. 

He eased into the touch, feather-light fingers on Jaskier’s palm at first, then firmer, surer. Geralt was warm, warmer than a human would be. His fingertips, rough and calloused but still so delicate, started tracing a path up and down the center of Jaskier’s palm. Jaskier curled his fingers in and closed them carefully over the angel’s. 

“Not so terrible, is it?” he said soothingly.

Geralt merely hummed in response, but they stayed that way a long while.

\---

Now that there was nothing to be afraid of, little touches came easily. 

Jaskier found their hands touching all the time; grazing accidentally while they walked or when handing things over. Sometimes when they would sit (always beside each other now) he would let his hand lay between them and before long he would feel warm, scratchy fingers in his palm. 

At least once a day, he would brush a stray strand of hair from Geralt’s face or tuck a lock behind his ear. It startled him the first time and the second. He still seemed unsure of himself, as if he wasn’t allowed such tender touches. Jaskier made it his private mission to make Geralt so accustomed to them that he expected them, leaned into them.

They went on like that for what seemed like forever; the angel was content to move slowly and Jaskier had no intention of pushing his luck. For once in his long life, he stood back and let the other make the moves and progressions.

Months passed and there came a warm evening in a meadow on a hill. They had a room in a town nearby, but the sunset was pictures and Jaskier insisted that they find a place to enjoy it. They sat side by side, legs and shoulders pressed together. Jaskier laid his hand on his own knee, palm up like always, and waited.

Instead of the hesitant touch they’d grown accustomed to, he felt Geralt’s warm hand envelop his, lacing their fingers together and gripping firmly. Jaskier didn’t move a muscle, fearing this moment of confidence would collapse if he dared to disturb it.

He watched with wide eyes as his angel lifted their hands up to his mouth and pressed soft, warm lips to the back of Jaskier’s palm. Geralt set them back down, in his own lap this time, and looked at him with soft eyes. Jaskier leaned in before he could talk himself out of it.

Their first kiss, like everything else had been between them, was careful and hesitant. Even so, his heart raced and butterflies fluttered around his stomach. It was little more than a tender press of the lips, but they had barely pulled back before he was dragged in for more, a hand on his neck and thumb stroking his cheek.

He imagined the sight of them was very poetic: two lovers caught in a gentle kiss in the setting sun. But as Geralt pulled him closer and kissed him deeper, Jaskier felt he could compose a thousand ballads about the angel in his arms, no red skies or rolling fields required.

Back at the inn as they fumbled free of their clothes, his angel let him take the lead, citing his “expertise” with a playful grin as Jaskier pressed him into the furs. He took it slow and wondered if Geralt had ever done this before, if perhaps angels were above such desires. He found that this angel had most  _ certainly _ done this before; he knew what he liked and what he wanted and he guided Jaskier through it with practiced ease.

Jaskier had never been with someone like himself, someone who didn’t need to rest or catch their breath. They could do this forever. The thought made him dizzy, but if he had to do anything for the rest of his days, he could do this. He could bury his fingers in his angel’s hair and whisper praises into his skin. He could feel his bruising grip and hear stifled, satisfied sounds. He could kiss him forever. Touch him forever.

Love him forever.

\---

Jaskier wondered if anyone of his kind had ever been in love. He hadn’t known it was possible. Sometimes he thought that perhaps it wasn’t, that this was all some mistake or misunderstanding. No one could blame him for not knowing what love felt like, after all.

But even as such thoughts flitted across his mind, he knew they were foolish. He’d never been in love before, but if this wasn’t it, then it didn’t exist. He felt it every second of every day, with every beat of his heart, and every breath from his lungs. 

The unlikely pair traveled much slower now, content to wander and not in any particular hurry. The glacial pace had them camping out more often in the space between towns, but Jaskier didn’t mind it much. In fact, he liked it sometimes, just the two of them far away from prying eyes and ears. 

Here they could speak freely, sharing stories about their lives - well, Jaskier did most of the sharing. But sometimes Geralt could be convinced to tell a tale or two and Jaskier would lay back and let himself be lulled by Geralt’s low, soothing voice. 

Jaskier liked to sing as they walked - songs he’d heard in his own travels or little tunes he made up on the spot. Geralt pretended not to care for them, but Jaskier saw the shadow of a smile at a particularly raunchy rhyme he belted out one afternoon. And sometimes, at night, he would hum sweet melodies and watch his angel slowly drift off to the sound.

Their travels carried them all over the Continent, but they had no destination in mind. They wandered in and out of tiny villages and grand cities, sometimes for a day or a week or a month, however long pleased them. 

Time seemed to disappear. Years melted together. The whole world was a backdrop to this. There was nothing but Geralt and his kiss and his smile and the warmth of his embrace. And Jaskier was happy. So unfathomably happy that it felt like a dream. What a wonderful dream.

He should have known better than to trust it.

\---

Jaskier tried not to notice when the changes started.

The two of them laid tangled beneath the furs in flickering candlelight so close, Jaskier could feel breath brushing his face. He let his fingers trace gently over his angel’s perfect cheeks and convinced himself that he couldn’t see the lines around Geralt’s mouth and at the corners of his eyes. It was nothing, just a trick of the light. He leaned in for another kiss and let the thought fall from his mind. And in the glow of morning as they roused from their calming rest after a long and late night, he simply wouldn’t accept the dark spots beneath Geralt’s eyes. It was a shadow, nothing more.

He didn’t worry himself when Geralt stopped their travels for the evening earlier and earlier every day. And when Geralt sat for a long while before they set up camp, as if he needed to rest, Jaskier sat right beside him and told himself that this was normal. 

He pretended not to see Geralt rubbing soreness from his muscles or wincing at an ache in his bones. He pretended that there was no dimming in his eyes or dullness to his skin. That his hair wasn’t losing its shine and there was no sinking in his cheeks. 

Jaskier would sit up at night watching his angel sleep and not think about how he seemed to sleep more and more these days, like it was a necessity rather than a luxury. Jaskier stroked his face and didn’t see the changes there. He didn’t think about how weary those eyes would look when they opened in the morning. He didn’t think about how grey his skin would be in the sunlight. He didn’t think about how even Roach seemed uneasy, nudging Geralt gently as they walked as if she feared he might fall.

His angel was fine. Just fine.

Then one day, Jaskier couldn’t pretend anymore.

They were traveling towards the coast for a bit of a reprieve. In the back of his mind with all the things he wasn’t thinking about, Jaskier foolishly hoped that the sea air would help. Hoped it would make Geralt strong again. That it would make him better.

Jaskier was rinsing off in the river near their campsite, keeping a careful ear out for his surroundings when he heard it. A wet cough, then another, then a thump. Then Roach started to panic, whinnying and stomping. He nearly tripped over his own feet getting back, a pit of dread forming in his gut.

He returned to find his angel hunched over on the ground and trembling like a leaf. Jaskier rushed to his side and tipped his chin up gently. Geralt’s hair was sticky with sweat and a sheen covered his ghost-white face. On his chin, in stark contrast, was a trail of something thick and red from his mouth. It streaked the front of his shirt and formed a small puddle on the ground before him. 

Both pairs of unnatural eyes widened with fear as they realized.  _ Blood. _

“Wha-” Geralt tried to say, but he was cut off by his own vicious coughing. Jaskier gripped his arm and patted his back as he’d seen mortals do, but the fit persisted until another stream of blood came pouring out of Geralt’s mouth.

_ This can’t be happening _ , he thought frantically, It was impossible, angels and demons didn’t have any blood to spill, their forms in this world only looked human. They had hearts to beat and lungs to breathe, they could eat and sleep, feel pain and pleasure - enough to fool a mortal, but it was mostly for show. They needed no rest or sustenance and they definitely didn’t  _ bleed _ .

Geralt seemed to have the same thought. “W-what’s happening to me?” His voice was horse and frail.

“Can you stand?” Jaskier asked in lieu of an answer. They tried to get Geralt’s feet under him, but it was no use; he collapsed in a heap back onto the ground immediately and Jaskier was barely able to break his fall. Geralt tried to mask a whimper but it came anyway, strangled and pained.

There was only one place he could think to go. She might not even be able to help, probably couldn’t, he was a fool to imagine it. But it was their only choice. 

Jaskier gathered Geralt in his arms and squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out everything else. He reached out in his mind.  _ Where are you? Let me find you, please.  _

There was a dreadfully long moment of nothing before he felt it,  _ I’m here.  _

He held tight to his angel and hoped he had the strength to carry them both.

\---

Yennefer was already outside when they arrived, wherever they were, standing outside her small cottage. She rushed towards them and her eyes widened.

“Is that an angel?” she asked in disbelief.

“What does it look like? Help me with him!” Jaskier knew he had no right to shout, but there wasn’t time. She came to Geralt’s other side and together they hoisted him up and started towards the cottage.

“What’s wrong with him?” she looked over at Jaskier, crease deepening at her brow.

“I don’t know,” he replied with a grimace.

Just then, Geralt was taken by another horrible fit of coughing and more blood came trailing down his chin. His eyes were barely open at all and he wasn’t carrying an ounce of his own weight.

“Is that blood?!” Yennefer stammered, a horrified look on her face.

“I think it is.” He knew it was, even if he didn’t know how, but ‘think’ sounded better. Safer somehow.

“Your kind don’t  _ have  _ blood.”

“I know that!” Jaskier cried as they came through the door. Yennefer directed them down a short hall and into a room with a bed where they laid Geralt down. Jaskier turned his back to her, clutching his angel’s limp hand, “Look, you know about angels, you have to help us, you have to fix him.”

“I don’t know if I can…,” she said with uncertainty. It was a lot to take in, he could admit. You don’t see someone for decades and then they show up at your door with one of their natural enemies, who appears to be dying.

“Try.  _ Please, _ ” he begged her. She had to help them, she  _ had _ to. He had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. She was the only person he could even dream of that might be able to help.

Yennefer was silent for a moment, wide eyes flying between the two of them.

Finally, “Fucking hell, all right.”

Jaskier exhaled heavily, eyes closing in relief, before she shooed him away.

\---

Jaskier met the sorceress, Yennefer of Vengerberg more than half a century ago. They’d been trying to seduce the same pathetic excuse for a Lord. Similar methods but slightly different intentions. He’d been looking for easy pickings. That particular lord had already acquired a reputation in the area for using his people’s taxes for his own finery; the way Jaskier saw it, no one would notice if the money was being spent on  _ his  _ finery instead. Yennefer, on the other hand, had been intending to help the people by catching his Lordship’s eye and redirecting his funds to their proper destinations. Well,  _ most  _ of them. She denied it now, but she’d admitted back then that she had been hoping for a few gifts in the process.

They’d come up with a compromise: Jaskier would handle the distraction and Yennefer would take care of the people. He still got to stay in lavish rooms and drink fine wine while she got the power she desired. It was a pretty good arrangement while it lasted. Jaskier had grown bored of it in time and moved on, like he always did back then, but the pair had stayed in touch and offered each other a helping hand on occasion.

This was one such occasion. He would owe Yennefer one huge favor after this.

It was hours before Jaskier was allowed back in the room. Yennefer came out a few times for books and various herbs, but she wouldn’t let him in while she worked. When she finally opened the door and stood aside for him to enter, it was halfway through the night, and candles lit the house.

Geralt was lying peacefully on the bed, his clothes clean and his expression blank. His skin still looked a shade too pale and his brow was still damp with sweat, but he was there, alive, and not bleeding for the moment. Jaskier took a seat on the edge of the bed and held his hand tightly once more.

“He’ll sleep until morning, I think. I gave him something to keep him under and something for the pain,” she told him, but he didn’t lift his eyes from the frail being before him.

Yennefer continued, “I shouldn’t be able to do that. These herbs shouldn’t work, enchantments shouldn’t work.” 

Jaskier swallowed hard and asked the question he feared the answer to more than anything, “How do they, then?”

She gave him the most pitying look he’d ever seen in his life and began to speak as gently as she could.

By the time Yennefer finished, Jaskier felt like everything had been carved out of him. Numb, and yet surrounded and filled with anguish. The longer she spoke, the more he wished she had nothing to say. He wished she wasn’t able to tell him what was wrong, that she was just as baffled as he was and there was nothing they could do. Wished it in his horrible heart because the truth was so very much worse.

After she told him, she sat in a chair on the opposite side of the bed and fell silent. Jaskier lifted his free hand to his angel’s face and touched his sunken cheek so lightly, he might not have noticed it even if he were awake. 

“What have I done?” he asked no one in particular.

Yennefer must have recognized that the question wasn’t for her, because she didn’t answer it. She only sat back and prepared to wait through the night with him. He didn’t speak again.

\---

The sun had just started to spill over the horizon Geralt finally roused, jerking into consciousness and trying to sit up. Jaskier placed soothing hands on his shoulders and spoke calming words,

“It’s alright, be still.”

Geralt’s head whipped from side to side, trying to take it all in. “Where am I?”

“Safe.”

His eyes landed on Yennefer. “Who-”

“A friend,” Jaskier interjected.

Seemingly satisfied with his answers, Geralt released some of the tension in his posture and let Jaskier help him to sit up, a pillow cushioning his back from the cold wall. He already looked exhausted, like the movement had taken everything out of him. Geralt let himself be fussed over for a few moments, taking sips of water and a cloth to dab the sweat from his brow, before he spoke again.

“What’s happening to me?”

Silence followed while the demon and the sorceress shared a look.  _ You or me?  _ Yennefer asked him wordlessly. Jaskier didn’t respond, dropping his gaze to the linens. She took it as an answer and replied, “You’re turning mortal.”

“That’s impossible,” Geralt returned gruffly. Jaskier gathered Geralt’s hands in his and squeezed.  _ Just listen,  _ he tried to convey.

“It’s clear as day. Your skin is pale and sagging. There are lines on your face where you smile and frown. There’s darkness under your eyes. Your hair is thin and brittle. You’re coughing up blood. You have blood to cough up. You’re weak. There’s no other explanation.” She paused before delivering the final blow. “It’s him. You are natural opposites, like fire and water.” Jaskier winced at the familiar comparison. “One can’t exist in the presence of the other. He is poisoning you.”

Geralt’s face twisted in a deep frown and his body went stiff. “How do you know?” he asked in a low voice, not looking up to face her.

“That you’re turning mortal? Shall I repeat myself?” she asked, not unkindly.

“The cause.”

“What else could it be?”

“Do. Better.” There was almost a growl beneath Geralt’s words.

“This,” she said simply, dropping a small storybook on the bed.

“Human fairy tales?” Geralt finally looked up in no small amount of disbelief.

“There’s truth to them. It’s the closest thing your kind has to history. Seems this has happened before.” She continued after a pause, “It’s the story of a kingdom that fell into civil war because of a demon. An angel came to stop it but the demon used magic to conceal herself from him and befriended him. Then, ‘her dark soul consumed him’, as they put it. His body became mortal and he died like a mortal.”

Jaskier wanted to speak comforting words but a lump formed in his throat and silenced him. He couldn’t think of what to say anyway, though he’d had all night to try and figure it out. It didn’t really matter, did it? No clever words or poetic prose could help them now. Nothing could. All he could do was hold his angel’s hand like a lifeline and dread the moment he would have to let go.

“That’s what’s happening to you. It’s unnatural for you to be so close, it’s not what you’re meant for. You need to separate, as soon as possible. Stay as far away from each other as you can.” Yennefer’s words were firm but her eyes softened in sympathy.

“You don’t know that for certain.” Geralt spoke without conviction, like he couldn’t even convince himself.

“Of course I don’t know it for certain. All I have is my best guess and my best guess is that if you don’t stay away from him, you will turn mortal and you will die. I could be wrong, but I doubt it.” With that, she left them alone.  _ He hasn’t much time left _ , she warned Jaskier as she went.

There was a beat of dreadful silence before Jaskier spoke with a weak and wobbly voice, “You didn’t say anything. You must have been in pain, why didn’t you tell me?”

Geralt gave him a pointed look. “You didn’t want to hear it. I saw the way you looked at me. You knew.”

Jaskier dropped his gaze guiltily downwards. It was true of course, loath as he was to admit it. He’d known from the beginning, he could see it every day. He’d never mentioned it, but if he had, what would he have said? What would he have done? He didn’t know because he hadn’t ever thought about it, had never dared to entertain the possibility. They’d enjoyed willful ignorance together and they couldn’t anymore.

Geralt tugged at their hands, drawing Jaskier’s eyes up. “I didn’t mind. Small price to pay.” And he  _ meant  _ it.

“Your  _ life  _ isn’t a small price!” He couldn’t believe his ears.  _ Small price?!  _ In what world could Geralt’s life be such a petty ware, traded like a book or a pot?

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” he demanded.

“Because I’m a monster!” Jaskier cried, much too loud for such close quarters but he didn’t care. “I’m selfish and stupid and when I don’t like the truth I pretend it doesn’t exist and I am  _ selfish  _ in my love for you. I couldn’t stop it, whatever it was, so ignored it, I let it  _ hurt  _ you because hurt is all I’m good for.”

“That’s not true. You don’t hurt me.”

“Yes I do! Are you not paying attention? I’ve been hurting you since the beginning.”

“That isn’t what I-” Geralt cut himself off with a growl, frustrated as always with his articulation. He had never managed to master verbalizing his feelings. He sighed deeply and tried again, “I don’t feel the pain when you’re here. I can live with it when I’m with you.”

“The only reason there is any pain at all is because of me. I’m killing you,” Jaskier’s voice faltered, “you have to stay away.”

“No.” Simple. Firm. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Then I’ll leave you.”

“I won’t let you.”

Gods, why did he have to make this so  _ difficult _ ? Jaskier stifled a frustrated growl of his own. “Don’t you realize what’s happening?! You’re dying, you’re turning mortal.”

“I don’t care.”  _ Stubborn bastard. _

“Well I do!”

“Then I’ll follow you.”

“You stubborn-” Jaskier stopped himself, knowing the childish name-calling would do him no good. He took a deep breath and felt tears gathering behind his eyes. When he began again, he was quieter, gentler. “Would you let me die? If it were the other way, would you stay and kill me?”

Jaskier could see the cogs turning behind Geralt’s eyes as he grappled for a response but none came. 

“Never. You would never, and neither will I. I won’t let you die because of me.”

Jaskier held his gaze and something fragile broke behind Geralt’s eyes. His practiced scowl cracked into sadness, despair. Jaskier lifted a hand up to cup his angel’s cheek and Geralt turned his face into it, lips pressing firmly into Jaskier’s palm. 

“I’ve made you compassionate,” Geralt murmured into his skin.

Jaskier let out a wet laugh and felt a tear escaping from the corner of his eye. “And I’ve made you reckless.”

\---

Geralt demanded one thing before Jaskier disappeared from his life forever. One final request of his lover and Jaskier dared not refuse him. It wasn’t a difficult wish to fulfill anyway, or so he’d thought. Turned out, however, that giving the only being you’ve ever loved one last kiss could be the most terrible thing in this world or the next.

Yennefer was kind enough to offer up her spare room until Geralt recovered, so long as Jaskier stocked up for her. They tried to keep their distance while everything got settled, just in case. It was like when they first met, like when Geralt was afraid to touch him. It made it so much worse, to be so close and unable to close the last foot or two. Within a few days, the cottage was fully stocked with ill-gotten supplies. There was no reason for Jaskier to stick around, though he tried vainly to find one. It was time. Time to say goodbye.

A few days worth of separation had already done Geralt a world of good; he was keeping down broth and walking about unaided. Happy as Jaskier was to see his angel getting better, it felt like fate was mocking him.  _ See how much better he is without you, without your filthy hands on him,  _ it seemed to say. Only one so selfish as he could make his lover’s healing about himself.

On the last day, Yennefer interrupted their breakfast to inform them that a very stubborn and agitated mare was at her door. Jaskier bolted from the table and couldn’t believe his eyes; Roach had found her way back to them. He apologized profusely for leaving her behind - not that she was interested, stamping her hooves impatiently. She refused to settle until Geralt came outside and she saw with her own eyes that her angel was alright. After their (nearly tearful) reunion, Geralt went back inside to fetch her some oats and an apple as a treat. Once he was out of ear-shot, Jaskier scratched her nose fondly. 

“Take care of him for me,” he told her softly.

When the hour arrived, Jaskier didn’t have to say a word. They locked eyes across the room and Geralt knew. Outside the cottage, dusk was turning into night. The moon shined bright as the last yellow rays of sunlight disappeared slowly behind the trees. Jaskier led them down the hill where they wouldn’t be seen or heard.

In the gathering darkness, they broke the invisible barrier. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t gracious or gentle. It was a mess of tongue and teeth and salt from their tears. Jaskier wouldn’t have had it any other way. It broke when Geralt had to stop for breath. Jaskier rested their foreheads together while he panted softly between them. 

They waited. Waited for some sign to tell them that this wasn’t happening, that it would be alright. No such sign came.

After what felt like an eternity and no time at all, Geralt pulled away. He looked so tired, even worse now with his red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks. Jaskier hated that this was the last of him that he would see, that this would be their last memory. 

“Close your eyes,” he whispered. He didn’t think he could do it with that gaze watching him, didn’t think he could bear to.

A few more painful seconds passed and Geralt’s eyes slid shut. Jaskier pressed one last kiss to his angel’s brow and was gone before he opened them.

\---

_ Stay as far away from each other as you can _ , that’s what Yennefer said. Jaskier fled to the other end of the Continent, as far as he could think to go. He hoped the distance would make it easier, but distance didn’t mean much when you could travel leagues in the blink of an eye. Though he doubted he could manage it in such a state. He’d never felt weaker in all his days, like someone had unstopped a drain within him and everything had flowed down it.

Each day blurred into the next and they were all the same. He drank, though it did nothing to dull his senses. He slept for days at a time but it didn’t ease his weariness and he didn’t bother to ask himself how he could be so tired anyway. He fucked and he didn’t feel a thing - every hand was too soft, every touch too cold, every look too empty.

All he wanted was to see his angel again, just for a moment. He wanted to see the color return to his face, the shine to his eyes, the strength to his muscles. He wanted to know he was alright. That he was healthy and able again. He wanted to see it with his own eyes. 

He’d never known a pain like this. Pain of loss. Grief. 

When Jaskier closed his eyes, he saw his angel. If he was lucky, it was him on their best days, grinning and snarking. If he was not, it was him in the end, weary and weak. On particularly terrible days, an image of Geralt lying cold and still in a pool of blood haunted him, glassy gilded eyes staring at nothing. A dark little voice in Jaskier’s mind would berate him,  _ selfish, stupid, fool, you hurt him, you killed him.  _

A darker voice would remind him how pathetic he was to have fallen in love in the first place. His kind were not meant for compassion or tenderness or  _ love _ . He was a demon from the shadows, a servant of evil. Pain was his purpose. 

But still he ached, for his angel, for his love. 

He tried to drown it out. He wasn’t satisfied with his old ways anymore, he wanted more. Needed more to fill the emptiness that threatened to consume him. He wanted to see great families topple, see cities burn, and kingdoms fall. Everywhere he went, he brought chaos with him, like a hurricane ravaging everything in sight.

It was never enough. 

He brought floods and famines, droughts and disease. He whispered in wealthy ears, sewing treachery until all he had to do was blow on the fragile house of cards. He drove Kings and Queens mad with lust and watched them fall, watched them burn their legacies for his kiss. 

He was like a wildfire, hot and hungry and burning and there was no one there to douse him. If only it helped him forget. If only it eased his longing. If only, if only, if only.

But it didn’t. Nothing did, nothing helped. It only made him more desperate to find something that would.

Years passed. He kept burning. Kept raging. Kept  _ wanting _ .

\---

Ten years of aimless wandering landed Jaskier in the tavern of an unsuspecting village with  _ infestation _ on his mind. He was deciding between rats and locusts when something caught his eye. At first he thought he was seeing things. It had happened many times before while he sat at a bar or walked through a crowd. A glimmer of gold or a shock of white, there and gone in an instant - his eyes tricking him into seeing what he so longed to see. It had been just a glance out of the corner of his eye, and he told himself not to look but he did (he always did). And there, at the edge of the crowded room, he saw him. His angel, staring back at him from under his cloak.

Time seemed to stop with his breath and his heart as he stood there, letting patrons jostle him this way and that. Geralt maintained his usual stoic visage but Jaskier could still see the softness there and let himself smile a broken, tearful smile. Geralt let his own lips turn up just a hair, barely a movement, but enough to make Jaskier’s cool skin feel warm. For the first time in so many years, his storm ceased, his fire burned out. For just a moment he felt calm, peace. He felt home.

_ Stay as far away from each other as you can _ , Yennefer’s words echoed in his ears.

_ He will die. _

The warmth blooming under Jaskier’s skin disappeared in an instant and his face fell like a stone. He should leave. He should turn back and fly away somewhere he couldn’t be followed. He shouldn’t be near him, shouldn’t see him or speak to him. He should…

But he didn’t. Geralt weaved through the crowd and Jaskier found himself mere inches from the face that had been haunting his dreams and his nightmares for a decade. He’d hoped that time had embellished his memories but Geralt was just breathtaking right now as he had been every time Jaskier closed his eyes. 

Jaskier felt a warm hand curl around his and tug him gently forward and he knew he should pull away but how could he? They were so close, close enough to share breaths and see nothing but the other’s eyes. He spared a fraction of a thought for what pain this touch would bring but it was chased from his mind as he was pulled away, towards the hall and to a door. They paused before it.

“We can’t,” Jaskier almost whispered.

“We can do anything we like.” Geralt’s voice was firm and his eyes were clear. No question. No fear.

“We shouldn’t.” Even as he said the words, Jaskier felt himself leaning in, in, until their foreheads touched and their noses brushed.

“We should.”

And when his lover brought their lips together, Jaskier kissed him like a man dying of thirst.

He shouldn’t have melted into his touch. He shouldn’t have fallen into his arms. He shouldn’t have let the door shut behind them, shouldn’t have let himself be pinned to the bed. He shouldn’t have touched or kissed or gripped or gasped.

But he did.

And in the candlelight as they laid wrapped around each other, sweat still drying, he couldn’t regret it.

\---

They lived in cycles. Together, apart, together, apart.

They could never be sure how long they would have before the damage started to show, but ten years seemed to be average. Sometimes it would be more, sometimes less, but the longer they were together, the longer Geralt would need to recover, and the harder it would be for him.

Once, they were only together six months before the blood started to show and returned within a year. Another cycle lasted two  _ decades  _ and they were so swept up in each other that they seemed to forget what it would mean for them later. Jaskier thought he would truly lose his angel that time. Geralt fell into a deep sleep, breath catching frailly and his heart barely stuttering along. Jaskier had to leave him while he slept, too afraid of what would happen if he stayed a moment longer. It was another twenty-seven years before they could be together again.

In the beginning they traveled like they had at the start, but it seemed such a waste of time after a while. Why sour the sweetness of the time they had together with drafty inns and shitty ale? No, Jaskier had a better idea. They started again towards the coast, south where the winters wouldn’t bite as harsh. 

They found a place up on a hill close enough to smell salt in the breeze, but high enough to be safe from sea storms. Jaskier wanted to swindle the seller (the bastard was asking far too much for it anyway) but Geralt insisted that they pay a fair price. Jaskier didn’t mention that he’d duped the coin out of a few fools in the next settlement over, but what his angel didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.

It was a tiny cottage, only one room (and a stable for Roach), but it was safe and dry and the hearth was warm. A perfect place to pass their time, a haven to return to when their long and lonely seasons ended. 

Jaskier did his best to be helpful, to abate as much of the hurt as he could. He went to town and charmed the mortals out of meat and mead and whatever delicacies he could find (his angel had quite the sweet-tooth). He fetched water from the well, tended the fire, and kept Geralt off his feet.

Geralt always tried to help, Gods, how he hated to be so useless, to sit back and watch while the work was done for him. He would gripe and grumble and furrow his brow in the adorable way that he did. And when they huddled close under the furs at night Jaskier would kiss away his frown and tell him how he didn’t mind and it was true. How could he when his angel paid so much of the price for their foolish hearts?

And Geralt was so  _ willing.  _ So willing to hurt, to suffer for them. Unafraid of the pain and unyielding in his certainty, even as the strength was slowly sapped from his body. Never once did he complain, at least not on purpose - sometimes he couldn’t help but shiver from the cold or clench his jaw against soreness. But he bared it wordlessly and so well that Jaskier found himself wondering how much his angel hid from him, how much of his distress he wasn’t privy to. It only made him that much more attentive when he sensed a bad day beginning.

But that was just the end, the last few months or a year at most. They had so much time before those dark days to live. It was an adjustment to be sure. Jaskier had never been in one place so long before, but he found that he didn’t mind it. He had years to wander the world in between. 

That’s not to say that they never left their little plot of land - the coastal countryside was a beautiful place to peruse at their leisure - but they never strayed far. The world didn’t seem to miss them and they didn’t miss it. 

Geralt had been certain that Jaskier’s mind would fall to rancor within the first month or so sitting stagnant in such a small corner of the continent, but it never happened. There was enough adventure in the smallest things to entertain Jaskier through any number of years. 

He found it in the early morning light spilling through their windows and bathing swaths of perfect pale skin in a warm glow. He traced lazy patterns there, watching the dust swirl between his fingers, until the limbs tangled with his started to shift. Until another hand captured his and dragged him closer.

He found it in the breeze as it weaved through snow-white strands. He felt the fine sand beneath his bare feet and heard the waves crashing close enough to touch. A shoulder brushed his and he closed his eyes, content in the wind from the east and the warmth at his side.

He found it in a careful smile that came easier and easier with each passing day. Whether it was a calm upturn of lips at the setting summer sun or a gaping grin encompassing his entire face, Jaskier basked in it like the gift it was, from the Gods themselves. And finding any way to see that smile was another adventure itself.

In the end, Jaskier always had to leave first. He would stock up their home with enough for a week or so, enough that Geralt wouldn’t have to walk farther than the well while he recovered. And every time Jaskier made to go, Geralt would pull him close and whisper,  _ just one more day, just one more night, just one more kiss,  _ and Jaskier was so  _ weak _ , giving in because his angel so rarely asked him for anything and he couldn’t bear to deny him when he did. But before long, he couldn’t dare indulge in  _ just one more _ , however much he ached for it. Jaskier would leave their place again and again with a bitter taste in his mouth to begin the cycle anew.

The in-betweens never got any easier. Guilt consumed him every time, thinking of his angel sick and alone all because of  _ him _ . Knowing that Geralt was hurting all because Jaskier just couldn’t stay away. And no amount of burning or raging or ravaging filled the hole he left. Jaskier was too weak to leave him, he knew he was. He wanted Geralt too terribly and demons always took what they wanted. It was his nature. He couldn’t escape it so he did the best he could. 

He waited. 

He waited as long as he had to, all the while berating himself for his foolishness, for his carelessness, and taking it out on whoever was near enough. But it didn’t matter. When the time was up and he saw his angel’s face again, it didn’t fucking matter how long he waited or how dreadful it was.

He could do this forever.

He  _ would _ .

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading, comments and kudos appreciated!
> 
> come visit me on [tumblr](https://thanksroach.tumblr.com/)


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